"When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn't a word to describe them. This month recognizes the loss so many parents experience across the United States and around the world. It is also meant to inform and provide resources for parents who have lost children due to miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, stillbirths, birth defects, SIDS, and other causes." - President Ronald Reagan, 1988
Until recently, I wasn't even aware there was an official "Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance" month or day. Now of course I can't let it go by without posting something. The good news is that our situation rarely upsets me anymore; it's just become a fact of our lives. We have each other and the dog and three personal saints, and we're happy. I do credit the dog with cheering us up until we can acquire children by other means. However, the next best thing to fur therapy is music.
Over the years, I've been compiling a playlist of songs about loss which helped get me through some tough times. Some are sadder than others, but I thought I'd highlight a few of the best ones today. Someday I'll post a comprehensive list.
1. Daughtry, "Gone Too Soon"
2. Plumb, "I Want You Here"
3. RyanDan, "Tears of an Angel"
4. Canadian Tenors, "Watching Over Me" (because we don't want to end on a downer)
We were celebrating the beginning of our mutual vacation last night with a longer than normal marathon of "CSI: NY," which resembles "Bones" and "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" enough to be much less annoying than "CSI: Miami." Anyhow, it seems we watched one episode too many, and we ended up going to bed depressed.
The episode in question featured a plot device I've seen before, the mentally unstable housewife who has failed to have children of her own and resorts to stealing them out of other pregnant women.
Why do I always have to be type-cast as the crazy person? Is the public perception of women like me really becoming so suspicious? We've all noticed the growing tendency of the populace at large to assume all veterans are ticking PTSD time-bombs. Apparently aspiring mothers who are for whatever reason unable to produce like normal women are supposed to develop a dangerous and slightly psychotic obsession with getting a child, any child from anywhere.
Which isn't to say it hasn't happened, and just goes to show the depth of feeling and strength of the instincts involved. I am all for bringing miscarriage back into the social consciousness, because no matter how early or how physically painless it might be, it still messes us up emotionally. We might be less stereotypically crazy if we weren't so repressed.
I've mentioned it before, but secret first trimesters should not be socially mandatory. Why did that become the norm? Is it just to spare our friends and neighbors the awkwardness of hearing about miscarriage and not knowing what to say? It might be awkward for them, but it's life-changing for me, so they can just deal with it. Real friends will want to know what's going on in our lives regardless, good or bad.
Maybe we just need some kind of acknowledgement that there may be something other than a pastel-colored paradise on the other side of a positive pregnancy test. Maybe it will be nothing but emergency rooms, IVs and blood tests. Maybe it will be days on end of sitting as still as possible and praying there won't be any bleeding. Maybe it will be chronic disappointment and a special colander under the bathroom sink. Maybe you'll end up right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a ragged scar, hospital invoices and a bottle of oxycodone. We aren't allowed to even mention it, because somehow it's considered bad taste. But, seriously, every woman should consider the possibility and have a plan so she won't be broadsided the way we were the first time.
If we'd had a plan, maybe we would have been coherent enough to ask for Alexis' body rather than letting him/her be thrown out with the medical waste. Maybe we would have known about conditional baptism in case of miscarriage. Maybe we would not have felt so completely alone and defective.
This last time we were joking darkly that we'd only really start freaking out if the unthinkable happened and we actually ended up with an infant. We were just starting to get hopeful when it all fell apart, and then we wondered why we had ever expected anything different. I received my soulless paperwork diagnosing miscarriage in the mail the same day as the congratulatory pastel packet from Johns Hopkins covered pictures with happy pregnant women. The former went into the medical file, the latter into the shredder. For a brief shining moment, I was a member of the happily pregnant club, but once I inevitably miscarry I'm supposed to retire quietly to grieve in the privacy of my own home so as not to rain on anybody else's pregnancy parade.
That could just be my perception, but it's hard to shake. Fortunately many of my friends, not all of whom have experienced miscarriage for themselves, manage to not be obnoxious to me while they are pregnant. Better, they don't seem to mind me talking about it. It needs to be talked about.
When I was sending our wedding invitations, I did not imagine that almost four years later we would still be living the extended honeymoon phase, pet-parents to a toy poodle. This was not the plan. If anything, I have learned to have alternative plans, or at least to expect the unexpected and plan for the unplanned.
Here's another quick musical tidbit. During my morning prayers a few days ago I was mentally regretting that I didn't have any music that could remind me of the kids without reducing me to tears. My Pandora station spit this out. Who says God doesn't use the Internet?
While we were down in the deep south with my in-laws earlier this month we were finally able to visit Little Dave's gravesite. The last time we had seen it they hadn't placed the marker yet. My sister-in-law does a good job of keeping it cleaned up. When it was all happening last year I went into a sort of detached survival mode and I didn't think it really mattered where he was buried, but in retrospect I'm glad we didn't leave him in California.
I wasn't bothered by the thought of visiting the grave. The reality has become such a fact of daily life that it was just another errand to run while we were in town. We had been looking forward to some quiet alone time there, but unfortunately the groundskeepers had chosen that corner of the cemetery to have a social chat on their riding mowers. We didn't stay long because there didn't seem to be much to say; Little Dave had a freshly baptized free pass into heaven, so he wasn't in need of any prayers. If anything, we asked him to pray for us.
Everything was fine until we decided to leave. The maternal instinct rebelled and all the irrational emotion came flooding back. Just the physical act of leaving him there was surprisingly hard. He belongs with us, after all; why should we have to leave him there next to the highway? Even though I know better, I can understand why some people keep their relatives in urns on the mantle.
Maintaining our faith often seems like a constant battle between what we know and what we feel. Fortunately faith is there to keep us sane when our emotions run amok.
Yesterday I attended the baptism of Michael Joseph, our first godchild. Unfortunately, Dave had to miss it, but we had a good friend stand as proxy. It was a gathering of the usual suspects, other young families of Christendom's class of 2008. Thankfully, I found I wasn't nearly as bothered by it as I would have been six months ago.
At this point, more than a year removed from losing Little Dave, I'm probably about as over it as I ever will be. The last few weeks in particular have been much better, all things considered. Everyone's personal tragedy has a social expiration date, after which one really shouldn't keep nagging Facebook about it, or look for ways to bring it up in conversation. The world has moved on, even if I feel like I physically haven't. Being alone has really brought it all to the forefront lately. If you've seen the movie, "Into Great Silence," that's what it's like around our apartment, and not in a good way. I got married because I was no good at the contemplative life. Yet, here I am.
They say you never think it will be you. I know I never did. My life had been picture perfect vanilla until two years ago. I had a lovely childhood with no serious injuries, illnesses, or setbacks, cruised through school, went to college, met a great guy who is so much like me he could be a long lost twin, and was engaged a year after graduation. We did have some suspicion that the matter of children could be dicey just because of certain aspects of our medical history, but we didn't let it dampen our spirits too much. We were married in January and pregnant by Easter, but then all our expectations began to crumble rapidly.
I had been looking forward to those kids for years. I remember a specific trash bag commercial I saw during those weeks while I was waiting to follow Dave to California after the wedding. I was sure Dave would be an excellent father and make adorable children, probably even cuter than that kid.
Needless to say, my expectations of my life have changed significantly. At this point, taking all my medical setbacks into consideration along with our hypothetical genetic issues and my apparent inability to carry to term, I am resigned to the fact that we'll never actually be able to raise those adorable children we were supposed to have. At least, not any that are biologically our own. Some people just knock harder when that door refuses to open. I tend to take the hint and accept the rejection before we waste a lot of money or I really hurt myself trying.
I have no problem whatsoever with adopting. That's currently the five-year plan. What actually still bothers me - more so while he's not around to tell me I'm being stupid for thinking it - is that Dave deserved to have his own family. I feel like the defective one in this relationship. He was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal, but he never asked for all this. Of course, no one does, but I was mortified, particularly because the timing could not have been worse for him, BOTH times. I married him to be a help and support, not an invalid who can't stay out of the hospital or muster up enough strength to feed herself. Part of what has scared me away from deliberately attempting another pregnancy is the thought that the black icing on the cake would be for me to die of uterine rupture and leave him completely high and dry. I can't even bear the thought. I've already failed him often enough.
In the meantime, most of our friends have budding families with all the traditional milestones, baptisms, first teeth, first steps, first birthdays. Their blogs and Facebook pages are full of happy pictures and updates. It can be extremely bittersweet. I've invested a lot of mental effort into trying to feel blessed to have two saints rather than merely deprived of viable offspring, and some days are better than others.
In order to move on and be functional we almost have to forget, but we really don't want to forget anything because we already have little enough to remember, and the only memories we have are of hospitals and heartbreak. I feel guilty when I forget. It seems particularly hard while there aren't any other children demanding my attention. Instinctively I feel like I should spend time with them now and then, but what that has basically amounted to up to this point is sitting on the couch and thinking about what we could have been doing.
One lesson I have learned, or at least finally come to accept, is that none of us is entitled to anything in this life. Their normal may not be our normal. Our normal is not what we thought it would be, but we are expected to make something of it, and in the end it will be for the best. Eventually it will be like cheese. For almost a year I went dairy free and felt painfully deprived each time I saw a pizza. But after several months I just accepted that cheese was only for other people and that I would have to be happy with something else. Eventually I forgot what cheese tasted like.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to pull it together to be the tough Navy wife with nerves of steel who can handle anything. I refuse to fail at anything else, because that would just be lame. So long as I have some meaningful human contact at least once a week, I'll stay sane. I actually don't know exactly how long Dave has been gone. I don't remember, and I haven't kept track. It's easier that way, since I don't know when he'll be back.
In any case, being alone has given me the chance to confront all my issues and pull my life back together for its own sake. My life is still awesome, even with all it's apparent flaws. I haven't been permanently traumatized, and the only substance I have ever abused is chocolate. I'm determined to get this show back on the road despite the detour. I haven't quite achieved the goal of domestic warrior demigoddess, but just you wait.
I don't generally follow political campaigns in their every detail. I know what I think, and I generally know who I'm voting for long before any serious debates happen. I don't take part in political conversations or venture opinions on controversial topics in mixed company because all my life my opinion has been summarily dismissed because I've been deemed too young, too naive, too sheltered, too misinformed, too inexperienced to make any definitive statements. Now I will make an exception.
I usually get all my political news in the early hours of the morning when my husband checks all his favorite blogs and news sites before heading off to work. So, the recent attacks on Rick Santorum and his family have come to my attention, the ones that brand him a weirdo for taking home the body of their premature son before burying him. Really, this has to be a new low.
The classic quotes circulating the internet are those of one Alan Colmes, saying this was one of the crazier of all the "crazy things [Santorum's] said and done," and a Eugene Robinson, who cites the incident as proof that Santorum isn't just "a little weird, he's really weird."
What is so weird and crazy about wanting to spend some time with the body of your child?! It may be the only time you ever get. As my husband curtly observed, people used to call it a wake. I wish we could have had a whole night with our son. We had a whopping 30 minutes in the morgue with hospital staff hovering over our shoulders the whole time. They were probably afraid we would try to do something "weird" and "crazy." And don't try to tell me Little David was "just a fetus." He was 24 weeks and only weighed a pound, but he was doing his best to breathe on his own even though his lungs wouldn't be fully developed for another eight weeks. He was trying to cry and open his eyes far ahead of schedule. He drowned in his own blood after fighting for life for two days, so don't tell me he doesn't count as a real person.
This is precisely why I don't follow the media storm. I have a thousand better things to do than suffer the blathering opinions and half-baked reactions of the infantile minds which have taken upon themselves to be the mouthpieces of the nation. They seem to be too absorbed in their extended adolescence to handle important adult issues like the realities of parenthood and death. Little David's birthday is coming up in March, and we are definitely going to celebrate. This Christmas his little stocking hung between ours, just like it will every year. Is that morbid, weird, or crazy?
The only advice I have for the liberal media is some I live by myself, and that is to shut the hell up when you don't have a clue what you're talking about.
The viewing at the hospital went as well as could be expected, which is to say it was an extremely bittersweet experience. All the staff were very busy at the time, so we were shuffled around quite a lot before we ever made any headway, which ordinarily wouldn't have been such a strain, but my incision was still rather fresh and walking was a chore. Also, I think Dave and I are well equipped enough to handle our own grief without every counselor and social worker in the world trying to tell us at length how to get in touch with our feelings. It was hard enough to maintain our composure without having to talk to strangers about the gritty details.
The actual viewing, when we got to it, was hard. I knew it would be, but I wasn't prepared for just how small and perfect he was. I cried for the whole half hour, though Dave took it somewhat better. It's not that I can't accept that things happened the way they did, but there's something terribly sad about holding it in your hands and looking it in the face. Just thinking about it still makes me cry. I'm going to do my best not to lose it in front of the family at the funeral next week, but that's probably a lost cause already.
The funeral directors are asking us to provide clothes within the next few days. We bought the smallest onesie we could find, but it's still too big. My mom is croqueting a little blanket for him, and Dave's mom is bringing a tiny rosary. The funeral should be on Saturday, March 19, after which he'll be sent to Macon to be buried. We're in the process of trying to get our move arranged for the second time, so whenever it is that we finally hit the road and pass through that town again, there will apparently be a full Latin requiem Mass for him in the church where we were married. I know little David doesn't need it, but we probably do.
Little David Edward was born just before 10 PM on March 6, and passed away two days later on the evening of March 8 due to complications from pulmonary hemorrhage. The doctors at UCSF called me during his last minutes and assured me than he was receiving the best attention possible. It was hard being bedridden and several cities away while it was happening, but at least I knew someone was holding him.
The silver lining in all this is that we were able to have him baptized during his brief life in the big world. It may not sound like much, but at this point it really makes all the difference to us.
David and I are making the trip up to San Francisco tomorrow to see and sign for his body. I expect that to be the hardest part of this whole ordeal. I barely knew what to expect even under the best circumstances. I was never able to hold him or even have a good look at him. I heard him try to cry once in the operating room as they took him to the nursery while I was being stapled back together. All I saw of him while he was alive was a picture on a nurse's iPhone, and his little nose poking out of the blankets of a portable incubator as they were rushing him away to an ambulance. The poor little guy was better than three months premature and weighed barely more than a pound. I don't expect to get a lot of closure out of getting to hold him now that he's dead, and it will probably break my heart all over again to see just how frail he was, but there really is no avoiding it.
I was released from my own hospital room today once my staples were removed. I'm still not very mobile, and at the moment not very coherent thanks to all the oxycodone in my system. Mentally, intellectually and spiritually, we've already accepted what has happened and found our peace with it. Emotionally, it will probably be a very long road.
Doctor says it's a boy. Mom is going to take the doctor's word for it, because what mom saw looked more like Gollum. Fortunately, we suspect his looks will improve in the next four months.
The good news is that everything seems to be surprisingly normal. He isn't in breech position, as we suspected he would be, although it's too early to tell which way he'll end up. All in all, we're hopeful.
In the meantime, I'm still on anti-nausea meds and enjoying the full onset of unmedicated hayfever. I look miserable with my raw nose and puffy eyes, but secretly life is pretty good. The clock is ticking down toward moving day, and our list of chores doesn't seem to be shrinking fast enough, but somehow I think we'll make it.
Yesterday was Baby Alexis' official due date, although he/she would probably have been earlier, more of a Christmas baby. Left this world on June 25, 2010, at 12 weeks and 3 days.
Baby #2 hit 12 weeks and 3 days on Gaudete Sunday, otherwise known as the pink Sunday of Advent. It seemed like more than a coincidence. Still hoping and praying.
